One Hit
by CSIBuckeye
Summary: Grissom ponders Sara at a crime scene.


Title: One Hit

Author: CSIBuckeye

Rating: M

Pairing: GSR

Spoilers: Through Season 7

Disclaimer: They don't belong to me, I borrow for fun only.

Notes: Just a short one-shot inspired by a comment that caught my ear when I was watching re-runs recently.

He should be good at it, he'd been stealing furtive glances for years; studying her when she was preoccupied studying evidence. Crime scenes used to be his only opportunity, though he hated the knowledge that something, or more precisely _someone_, could distract him while he worked. But now… now he could watch her more openly, especially when the two of them were alone at a scene, like now.

Sara bent over the counter in Izzy Delancey's kitchen, her attention focused solely on the miniature. Grissom slowly inhaled the scent of her mango shampoo combined with the coconut lotion that he had massaged into the lengths of her impossibly long legs a mere hour ago. He loved to lotion her skin after they showered. The feel of her soft, smooth skin under the coarseness of his calloused hands never failed to delight and excite him. It had resulted in the need for a second shower on more than one occasion. In fact the early call in to this scene had foiled his post lotion plans and the disappointment still lingered in his gut, or...perhaps slightly lower.

"I think Malibu Barbie did it," she quipped as she brought him back to the task at hand.

They talked through his findings, the meticulousness of the model, and the length of time it had probably taken to craft. He pointed out the matching blood pools and she immediately recognized the significance.

"Killer must have stuck around to match the scene," she speculated.

"It's real blood," he returned as he watched the swab turn bright pink.

"That…is a level of obsession that gives even you a run for your money," she smirked.

He glanced at her with a slight eyebrow raise and a hint of a smile. She was the only one that fully understood how obsessed he was capable of getting. She had seen it first hand, at least as close as he would let her, with the Debbie Marlin case. But she was the only one that knew that that particular quality extended beyond work and well into his personal life. They had been together long enough now that she longer gave him grief over his need to have his socks mated in a certain way, or his audio-visual materials alphabetized and sorted into his own specialized categories. He didn't consider that obsessive though, just…organized. No, he reserved his obsessiveness mostly for Sara these days. He could spend infinite amounts of time studying her nuances. It was only in so doing that he had learned that her deep chocolate eyes actually held flecks of green and gold, or that the freckles along her right shoulder bore a striking resemblance to the constellation Virgo, or that time actually seemed to suspend itself as he watched droplets of sweat trickle slowly down between her breasts as she…

"'If Dusty Fell,' Izzy Delancey," she read off the gold record on the wall.

"It was his biggest hit," he replied, once more jostled from his reverie.

"I have never heard of him," she said with a hint of surprise.

"Probably before your time," he teased with a smirk.

"I'll download it," she replied quickly as she pursed her lips.

He couldn't keep the twitch of a smile from passing over his lips. He knew she hated it when he drew attention to their age difference, because he knew it didn't matter to her in the slightest. In truth it had been much more of a concern of his at the beginning of their relationship. But with time and patience on Sara's part, she had allayed his fears. She loved him, with his gray hair, wrinkles and slightly expanding middle aged spread, she loved him anyway. And he loved her.

He watched her work the scene, talking through what she knew and what she learned from the evidence. She was so lithe and elegant, especially when she worked. He knew that some people would find that an odd observation, but she was at her most amazingly beautiful to him when she was in her element, and that was, without question, working a scene. He often wondered if she had any idea what she did to him.

"Looks like blunt force trauma," she remarked as she studied the wound. She looked up and shone her flashlight on the ceiling, "No spatter or cast off, which suggests a single blow."

"Sometimes it only takes one hit," he replied. Their eyes met and he knew she had caught his true meaning. That had been his worst fear for years, that if he ever crossed that line, even a little; he wouldn't be able to turn back. The problem was, he was never sure exactly where the line was located. So whenever he felt like he had stepped dangerously close to it, he took three giant steps back. He had continued that way until he feared he would lose her forever. Funny that it was the same emotion that had paralyzed him for so long that had finally empowered him to act.

And of course he'd been right. The second his lips met hers, he knew it was over, he was hooked. When her tongue had danced lightly over his bottom lip and requested entrance, he had granted it without hesitation. The first time her fingers had grazed the sensitive skin along his bare sides as she pushed his shirt off, he knew it would never be enough. And the first time he had felt her beneath him and looked into her eyes as his body merged with hers, he knew he was addicted. Sara was his drug of choice, and sometimes it did indeed only take one hit.

The End…


End file.
